She was like Rosalie's
mother and yet not a bit like her. She was older and yet terribly
brisker and stronger. Those were the days when frosted Christmas
cards were of the artistic marvels of the age, and Aunt Belle
beside Rosalie's mother somehow made Rosalie think of a frosted
card beside one of the plain cards. When Rosalie's mother was in
a room you often might not know she was there; but when Aunt Belle
was in a room there seemed to be no one there except Aunt Belle.
She began to talk, in a voice as high as the house, while she was
still descending from the cab on her arrival, and the only time
Rosalie ever saw her not talking was during service in Church on
Sunday, when she was alternately glittering or whispering or else
bending down so extraordinarily low that Rosalie thought she was
going to lie prone upon the floor.
Dear thing! She was so kind to Rosalie and so kind to them all, and
yet----And yet they all, except Rosalie who was too small (then)
to appreciate the resented quality in Aunt Belle's kindness, and
Rosalie's mother who was too gentle to resent anything, and yet
they all, save Rosalie and her mother, loathed and abominated Aunt
Belle. It was her way of doing things. She gave kind gifts, but
it was the way she gave them. She admired everything and everybody
in the rectory, but it was the way she admired. She said most kind
and affectionate things, but it was her way of saying them.
"Why, how very nice indeed!" That was her insistent comment
upon everything in the rectory.
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